James Benn - Evil for evil

"And his feet don't quite reach the chair," I said. "I doubt he hit himself on the head and then jumped up into the noose."

"Why stage a suicide then? It doesn't make sense. A man like Jenkins was bound to come to a violent end," Carrick said. "It wouldn't have surprised me to find him shot or beaten to death and left by the side of the road. But this seems like an elaborate ruse for no purpose."

"Perhaps the killer wanted to divert suspicion from himself," Cosgrove said.

"No need to, sir," Slaine said. "There are any number of IRA types who would gladly have strung him up. We'd be hard-pressed to limit ourselves to a dozen suspects offhand."

"Then why?" Carrick asked. "Drive the truck forward slowly, so we can let the body down," he said, pointing to two constables who stood by the cars. "One of you hop up and get that noose off him."

The constables acknowledged his order and walked to the truck.

The silence was broken by the throaty sound of a motorcycle on the main road, downshifting, followed by a short, sharp screech of tires. Shouts came from the direction of the main gate, and heads turned in that direction. The motorcycle engine revved high and I saw it turn the corner, followed by the two RUC men from the gate, their pistols drawn, yelling for the man to halt.

Carrick drew his revolver, and I followed suit with my automatic. One of the guards fired a warning shot over the motorcyclist's head, and I saw him scrunch down, making himself a smaller target.

"Get back," Carrick shouted to all of us. "Inside!" We were in the line of fire. He dropped to one knee and held his pistol level as the motorcycle drew closer. Two shots rang out, the men from the gate firing and missing. The motorcycle swerved left and right, then turned hard to drive straight at us. The driver wore a leather helmet and goggles, and his mouth was open, yelling something. He looked like a crazy man, his face contorted in rage or frustration.

"No!" he shouted as he braked and slid the bike sideways, spraying Carrick and me with mud. Carrick kept his revolver aimed at the man, but didn't fire. He stood and raised his free hand in the direction of the men giving chase. I kept my. 45 aimed at the motorcyclist. He looked familiar. This had to be the mystery Yank: same motorcycle, same trench coat.

"For God's sake, don't start that truck!" He pulled off his goggles and helmet, his American accent ringing out loud and clear. And then I knew why he'd looked so familiar. I lowered my automatic, not believing what my eyes were seeing.

"Who the hell are you?" Cosgrove said, emerging from the warehouse.

"I'm the man who just saved your goddamn life," he said. "Want to tell them who I am, Billy, as soon as you point that cannon away from me?" His face lit up in a hell-raiser's grin, one I'd seen many times, and I couldn't help but smile back at him, even as the impossibility of it rattled around inside my head.

"This is Daniel Boyle. He's a homicide detective with the Boston Police Department. And my uncle."

"Explain yourself," Carrick said, not showing much interest in this Boyle family reunion.

"Call your bomb squad. That truck is wired with plastic explosive, enough to destroy this place and anyone close to it," Uncle Dan said as he gave me a bear hug. "It's probably wired to the ignition but I wouldn't recommend trying the doors until the experts look at it."

"I don't mean that," Carrick said. "I mean explain what you are doing here, and how you come by this information."

"This is District Inspector Hugh Carrick," I said, and introduced Uncle Dan to the others. I wanted to know what the hell he was doing here myself but I sensed his presence might not be entirely on the up-and-up.

"An explanation is in order," Cosgrove said.

"I'd like to have a word with Billy, if you don't mind," Uncle Dan said.

"No," Carrick said. "There will be time enough for a chat later, at headquarters. What I want to know right now is how you got by this information."

"Well, let's see if I'm right," Uncle Dan said, walking over to the truck. "Billy, can you slide under and take a look at the engine? Don't open the hood. Don't touch anything."

"Don't worry," I said, getting down on my back and pushing with my heels. Carrick and the others crowded around, their curiosity overcoming their qualms. It was dark under the truck but not so dark that I couldn't see bricks of plastic explosive tucked in the wheel wells and in various places around the frame and engine. Detonators were wired to each, and seemed to lead to the ignition switch. I could see above the radiator to the hood latch, and there were no wires or explosives there. I pulled myself out.

"The hood is clear," I said. "But look at this." I opened the hood and propped it up. Even more of the plastic explosive was visible. It looked like enough to sink a battleship.

"That's why the killer faked a suicide," Carrick said. "So we would all be called to the scene, stand around trying to figure things out, and then blow ourselves to smithereens."

"The rope was short so that we'd have to start up the truck to lower the body. If Uncle Dan had been just a few minutes late-"

"This would have been one big hole in the ground," he finished for me.

"We owe you our thanks, to be sure," Carrick said. "If you're a policeman, as your nephew says, then you will understand we need to speak with you further about this matter and your presence here. It is not official, I take it."

"The jurisdiction of the Boston PD does not extend over the Atlantic, to be sure," Uncle Dan said. "As for right now, I'd be happy to answer your questions but I have an appointment. Saving all your lives has made me late, and this much explosive makes me nervous, so I'll be leaving."

"I agree with you about the explosive, Mr. Boyle. But not about your leaving. Constable," Carrick said, pointing at Uncle Dan, "search him."

They found a. 38 Special, brass knuckles, and a switchblade, but no passport or identification. But it was obvious he wasn't here to tour the old country. Cosgrove and Carrick argued over whether this was a police matter or one for MI-5. Carrick responded by informing Uncle Dan that he was under arrest for reckless driving and vagrancy, and put him in the back of one of the police cars with a constable on either side. Uncle Dan nodded and smiled in appreciation of the maneuver as he settled in for the ride between two cops who owed him their lives. I figured these Ulster cops were a better bet than MI-5 at Stormont Castle. Our driver followed us on Uncle Dan's motorcycle, and we all drove north, back to Belfast and RUC headquarters, me at the wheel with Cosgrove and Slaine in back.

"They should give him a medal, not take him in," I said, probably for the tenth time.

"You had no idea he was here?" Slaine asked.

"None. I'd seen a guy on a motorcycle shadowing me, and a few people I talked to mentioned another American asking the same sort of questions I was. That must have been Uncle Dan. Remember, I asked you if you had another American working on this?"

"Yes, I do. It rather looks like you had the other American, not I."

"I had no idea it was him. How could I?" I thought about the Boston Braves matchbook in my pocket. That would have come from Uncle Dan. He was a Braves fan and could easily have grabbed a few packs of smokes and matches for the trip, without even thinking about it. Then he and Eddie Mahoney meet for a pint, the cigarettes and matches are out on the table, and Eddie ends up with Warren Spahn in his pocket. But what had Uncle Dan been up to with Eddie Mahoney, and why was he following me around in secret?

I could think of one reason. Given Uncle Dan's membership in the North American IRA and his connections with Clan na Gael, I could make a pretty good guess, especially since he'd been in touch with Eddie Mahoney. The Dublin IRA wouldn't be the only ones out for blood when they learned about Red Jack stealing from them. Joe McGarrity, the head of Clan na Gael, and good friend of the Boyles, would be upset too. Upset enough to send someone to eliminate the thief, and set an example. Upset enough to send a hit man. A man loyal enough to do what had to be done and keep quiet about it. A man like Daniel Boyle.